


Silver’s Enchanted, Struck By Blue’s Lightning

by Pink_and_Velvet



Series: Hold Tight, Onto Daddy’s Bracelets [7]
Category: Duran Duran, The Power Station (Band)
Genre: A/B/O verse, Alternate Universe, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Delirium, Dreams, Established Relationship, Falling In Love, Family Planning, Growing Up, Hospitals, Idiots in Love, Lightning - Freeform, M/M, Men Crying, Moving On, Nightmares, Pain, Recording Studio, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll, Singing, The Power Station Album, serenades
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:28:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27248797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_and_Velvet/pseuds/Pink_and_Velvet
Summary: There’s a sound, a song. It’s nearby too. Drawing him in, adding soft blue light to his darkness.John could’ve sworn he was alone, he’s always alone.
Relationships: Simon Le Bon/John Taylor (Duran Duran)
Series: Hold Tight, Onto Daddy’s Bracelets [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1573288
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	Silver’s Enchanted, Struck By Blue’s Lightning

**Author's Note:**

> Today is a very special day for me, for my series. One year ago today I posted my first chapter of the story that started it all: We Danced Into The Fire And Look Where It Got Us!! I’m honestly in disbelief that it’s been a year, a year of turmoil and uncertainty for us all.
> 
> Writing has been my one true constant this year, the building up of this series is the only aspect I have to be proud of this year. This is my 2020 legacy, no matter what anyone else thinks I know I’ve done myself proud. This is what I have to show for it.
> 
> To celebrate my fic’s first anniversary, I’ve never celebrated any story before, I present another instalment to the series. I hope you enjoy. Thank you so much for reading and sticking by me with this series, it really does mean the world.

_Early January, 1985_

Steps small and laboured, he approached the studio, hands shoved deep into his pockets; boxy and shapeless black coat sealing in his ever growing body tight. He approached the reception desk with caution, then the lift; the place was deserted. Save for the gust of wind that blew in through the doors, the last of the snow crunching under his boots. Peeling off his dusty blue gloves, he shoved them in his pockets. Rubbing at his tired eyes, he only now noted the time. It was coming up on eleven PM, he wondered what he was doing here at this hour.

He always was at the studios, much later into the night. He’d had the weirdest feeling all day and night, unable to sleep or eat or keep still; that he had to be here. Had to come here. The only way to settle the butterflies wafting wild in his stomach, the only way to stop his mind from running away from him: was to come here.

The Power Station studios were a sanctuary of sorts. A home away from home, a home away from his penthouse; touching the sky in downtown New York. The Power Station studios welcomed him with open glass doors, open lift doors. With an open, solemn studio for John to rest easy in tonight.

The ding of the lift told him he had arrived at his floor. Though he felt odd being here alone, knowing that he would be remaining alone, he found a second wind: strolling cautiously down to the studio he called home.

John paused, body shivering in fright. He felt his stomach flip, knowing that little body deep inside of him was stirring. Breathing, floating. Reminding him that here they are, they’re here to stay. He felt the sudden queasiness, spine hunching as he found himself rushing to hold in his stomach.

There was a sound. A _song._ Nearby too, growing stronger with every step.

Sweat was pooling on his forehead, frozen mullet strands were now dripping as he melted. Removing his palms from his baby, using their warmth, he rubbed them together. Desperate for friction, desperate for the feeling to coat his cool skin.

He stopped dead in his tracks. The voice was growing. A small, tinkly sound was flowing and flowing. John’s enchanted, struck by lightning; when he forced his feet to move. To tread gently on this ground.

His heart was racing, this was his moment. He’d unwillingly run the race just to be stood there, palm shaking as he lurched forward to open the studio door. The knob was burning under his grip, he pulled back in haste. Swept his brow in haste, fingered his cream scarf. Surely he was getting ill, coming ever closer to that sound again. It was making him light headed yet he didn’t question himself or his moments. He longed for another voice, another soul calling for him.

He feels them calling.

Letting go of his shaky breath, John opened the heavy glass panel doors; creaking softly under his hand. He scurried inside, shivering again as the temperature dropped. Removing his woollen cream scarf that was practically glued to him these days, a Christmas gift from his mother Jean; John again stopped dead in his tracks. The scarlet light was on. They were recording.

He could’ve sworn he was alone.

The Power Station studios were free save for his soul, bar the one security guard that had let him inside (for a line) in the first place. He crept closer, shucking his jacket from him. Holding his breath in tight; John found no need to do so anymore. With another shaky exhale, he let go, letting his stomach go with it. Small but noticeable bump on show, waving hello.

What can John do, the feeling is so exciting.

His skin is alight with shivers, again he’s enchanted. Maybe he really was struck by something, by lightning. If he had simply ran in, into that other body. How could he refuse, the night is so inviting.

Puzzled, he took to smiling and found that for the first time in months; his smile was genuine. He felt younger, a spring in his step. From this soul, John didn’t have to hide. They already knew. John hadn’t told them with words, though as his hands came down to palm his stomach on reflex; they knew better than anyone.

He took another cautious step forward, finding now that his smile was wavering. Watery, dropping. Though he didn’t feel like frowning. Those words had grown stronger, John hadn’t yet been noticed. That voice had grown in hunger, in hunger to see him. To see John, to feel him; never lost and only found. Separated between the cruel pane of glass, speakers, a sound deck and a microphone.

It’s their second home. Their _real_ second home: recording.

John heard him calling. Calling, calling, whispering the love song John helped to write. The score, that belonged to John and to John only.

He was taken by surprise, certain his eyes were fooling him. Though he does know, everything is synchronised in a movement. Stepping ever closer, the reasons for having met the figure before came flooding back. Every moment that they have shared, guarantees it.

His smile had long since faded, he wasn’t so sure of himself now. Though it had been miles ago, since they’d first said ‘hello.’ He can’t let them out of his sight, there’s a passion here. A passion has to grow, John of course is the first to know.

Now he was standing before the glass pane, tears streaming down his puffy face. The figure’s glistening sapphire eyes were also watery, they’re separated by the cruel glass pane. John can’t let this man out of his sight. Maybe luck can never be with him but he’ll ride out their lucky tide.

His eyes are clogged with tears, he can only stammer out his words. Knowing they can’t be heard, John debated whether to try and reach for that button. The special one that lets his voice ring through, breaking barriers, through into the small and secluded booth. He didn’t.

Instead John’s enchanted, struck by this figure’s lightning. A bolt of blue shooting for him, craving a bolt of silver from the bassist in return. Fate’s on their side, if only for this moment. John can tell, eyes clouded by streams of tears; though they won’t stop pouring.

Taking another sure step, the courage to raise a hand is becoming even harder to ignore. John’s ever so close, now the figure is standing right before him. Headphones off, mic down. Lyric sheet abandoned. Those words they were saying were real. John can’t hear if he doesn’t listen, still separated by the cruel glass pane. It only embodied the barriers he had erected, the walls John will continue to erect. He can’t take a step closer and neither can they. They need their space. They need each other.

Crying softly, John raised his hand. His black bangles clinked softly, the added weight ever so comforting in the moment. The small tinkling sounds filling in for the lost void, the vocals he can no longer hear.

John choked off his own whine, upon seeing that hand come to rest atop his. Separated by their cruel pane of glass, the walls John will continue to build. He’s still crying softly, face stained with gut wrenching tears. Every emotion is flooding from him, bleeding into streams of other thoughts he’s too hollow to feel. Voids that he’s sure he won’t fill. However, blinking in the hopes for clarity, John wondered if he had ever looked so found. Not lost, _found_.

The figure keeps their fire alight. Nothing can go wrong now but they won’t be together from now on. John choked on his own spit as he watched, enthralled, their free hand coming to lay on the glass before him. Before John, slowly creeping down to lie right above his stomach. _They know,_ he told himself in relief, _they know everything._ With a choked off cry, John swooped his coat out of the way, for whatever reason he was desperate for his baby to be seen. To be treasured.

John unveiled himself for the first time on his own accord, own command; monochrome check shirt and belts glowing. His skin was glowing, his eyes alight with sparks.

  
  
Glancing down, John slowly matched the movements of the figure; hands coming to rest on his own stomach because _they_ can’t. They’re separated, they’re ever so close. With all the love they excite, John knew there is passion to grow. He only hoped that this passion wouldn’t fizzle out too soon. Wouldn’t _dare_ to leave him, so soon.

Though it pained him, John does remember life without their music. He’s living it, he’s breathing it; fighting to make it through without it. As a solo act. No duet in sight. John only had doubt. Though now, standing here, cheeks soaked in his own happy tears: John can’t be _Lonely Tonight._

He found himself speaking, voice a mere whisper. John was unable to look at them, bleary gaze dropping back down to his engorged stomach. “Is it _true_ then?”

There was no hesitation. The voice flowed merrily through the speakers. At some point John had found the courage to press that button. To hold it, allowing the figure to speak.

“Absolutely. I meant what I said, what I know you’ve read in the press. You want a session singer for each song, I’d love to be here. On _your_ album.”

“You…” _On my album._ He swallowed down the lump forming in his throat, fighting to keep his gaze up. He bought it up, tears raining. “Really? You would?”

“If you’ll have me.”

Silence.

“For you Johnny, you know I’d do anything. And besides, you said it in the press before. You’re writing for your _luv_ , it’s a pity you can’t tell them just _who_ you’re writing these songs for.” They weren’t mad, they weren’t sad. Though John knew there was pain in that tone, a real sorrow he found himself succumbing deeper too. “Just… _think_ about it, I’ll be here. Waiting.”

Choking, “for how long?”

Throwing his head up, John blinked. They’d gone. Whisked away, the ghost left him there. A phantom of a memory, ingrained into John’s twisted mind.

“Not long enough, you bastard!” John croaked out, voicing his strained thoughts. “Why d’you have to _leave_ me again?!”

“Leave _you?_ ” The voice boomed though John couldn’t see. “You’re running again, baby. Don’t.”

Immediately, he hurled his weight forward, tears of sadness streaming from him as he kicked out at the glass.

_“John… John! Holy…”_

Sweaty palms clutching endlessly to the glass, clawing to his knees he fell. Into a ball he shrunk, bringing his knees up and under his chin.

_“John, talk to… just talk to… its me!”_

He wept pitifully, again too lost in his own tearful nightmares. Too wasted to tell the real from reflection, too in _love_ to keep their fire alight.

_“John… please... open your eyes…”_

He was truly stunned, they had remembered his lyrics wonderfully. Had learnt them, tweaked them, _perfected_ them.

_“John…baby, please!”_

John snapped his eyes shut. When they opened, his vision was blurred.

_“Nigel? Nigel!”_

Blinded. By white; white, white. No sound decks, no recording booth, New York wasn’t to be seen.

_“Nigel, come on… you… can, Johnny, you can do it.”_

When he opened his eyes, he was blinded by the white.

_“… John... John! He, he’s awake!... need a… get a doc—”_

He’s awake, he’s breathing, attached to tubes and the IV’s were running from him. He had been out for a week, not that he knew.

“Nigel John Taylor!”

He released his word in a single, shaky breath. “ _Nicky?_ ”

Blinded. By white; white, white. No sound decks, no recording booth, though New York was unwillingly still in his sights. No session singers, no more hassle. He’d fight for one and one only, he’s lonely enough tonight.

Though he missed those tender touches of hand, tender presses of sealed lips. He’s lonely enough tonight bound to his bed without an answer in the world. And so was Simon.

**Author's Note:**

> This is ordered before We Danced Into The Fire as it’s closer to the beginning story than to the end, slotting in nicely between chapters 8 and 9. So very early on for John in the story, his early days in New York!
> 
> Find me on tumblr @duranarchy-in-the-uk ♥️♥️


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